


The Designer

by law_nerd



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-15
Updated: 2010-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/law_nerd/pseuds/law_nerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very AU take on the DWP universe, set in an equally AU Austria in the late 1800s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Designer

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't warn for "Graphic Depictions of Violence," 'cause I don't think it is ... but there is a fight scene with fatalities so your mileage may vary.
> 
> This is just a fragment of a longer work that may or may not eventually be written, so if you're allergic to unfinished works, please don't read.

### Part ?/?

It was late evening, and the winter streets were darkening when the seamstress slipped out of one of the servants' doors to head home. A late arriving coach stopped at the front entrance of the Amalia wing, and she moved back from the bright lights near the door to watch the Empress' guests disembark. She didn't recognize the guests – minor nobility of some sort, no doubt. Clearly neither important enough, nor rich enough, to have been gifted by the attentions of the Empress' new designer.

As she watched the bustle around the entrance, she noted a slim figure exit and merge quickly with the shadows. Her first thought was that the young man was far too well dressed to be her escort. Her second, that the designer could outfit the least of her entourage in silks if she wished. She had seen the designer reduce a young guardsman to tears over less than perfectly shined boots. It could well be that the designer's junior errand boys – the escort a seamstress like her deserved – all wore top hats and the latest design in long frock coats.

He spotted her and walked to meet her, jauntily swinging his cane to a loose approximation of a salute as he neared. He picked up one of the baskets at her feet, making a soft sound of surprise at the weight of it, then gestured again with his cane that she should lead on.

Although he was shorter than her, his stride matched hers, and he followed half a pace behind as she headed north from the Hofburg towards the textiles quarter. She paused only once, in the Michaeler Platz, to give an almost imperceptible curtsey to her favourite among the statues of Hercules. Although she daily felt that she was only barely of keeping ahead of an onrushing tide of Augean horse dung, she had recently come to see her struggles with the overwhelming perfectionism of the designer closer exemplified in Hercules' battle with the Nemean lion. On good days, she even hoped that someday she might play the role of Hercules in that little drama.

They had just passed the Judenplatz when she noticed a carriage blocking the narrow way ahead. A man spoke behind them, his broad Carinthian accent – so different from the language of the palace – giving her a second's pause before she understood.

"Go 'way boy. It's the little miss we're here to pick up."

She turned, and again it seemed that her understanding could not keep up with events. A short muscular man was staggering away off balanced by the basket her escort must have thrown. A second man, a dockworker by his attire, held a short club with which he was fending off her escort's cane. For a moment she thought that her protector had lost his mind, as he waved the cane as though it were a sword. The dockworker had obviously come to the same conclusion, ignoring the cane he stepped closer. The youth ducked a swing from the dockworker's club, then continued his movement to strike the head of his cane into the side of the worker's knee.

The joint gave with a wet crunching noise and the man fell, retching and clutching his leg. The youth kicked, his boot heel striking the man's temple, silencing him before he could start screaming. Screaming seemed like a good idea, but the youth was moving again, placing himself between her and the second man, and she held her breath instead.

The other attacker had recovered his balance and was moving forward slowly, a long knife in one hand, his other arm behind his back like a fencer. The youth must have seen something, he started ducking as the man threw, but not fast or far enough, and several lengths of fabric struck him, obscuring his vision. The attacker darted forward, slashing. The youth parried, blind, and the two figures closed grappling. A head butt drove the knife man back, and the two paused sizing each other up.

Short man, big knife; slender youth, cane and hat both lost in the struggle, shaking his long, silver-white hair loose from where it had been piled, hidden by her hat.

"Zatrzymać!" a harsh command from the carriage. "Halt! You are not to harm that one."

"You don' own me, polack. Da bitch hurt Fritzl, and I'm gonna gut her." the attacker snarled, and moved in, knife ready. A metallic twang from the carriage, and he stopped, a look of profound confusion ghosting over his face as he grasped weakly at the feathered bolt protruding from his temple. Unstrung, he dropped to his knees, swayed, then collapsed face down on the cobblestones.

A whip crack, and the carriage moved briskly away.

The seamstress looked at the two bodies on the road, at the retreating carriage, then, finally, at the designer who was calmly picking up her hat and cane. She considered fainting, perhaps a few minutes unconsciousness would allow her to awaken in a world that made sense. Fainting, however, was a luxury her life had never afforded, and she didn't think she could start now.

"My lady," she was proud that her voice didn't quiver, "you should not be here. We are almost at Wipplingerstrasse, let me find you a carriage. You should return to the Hofburg, where you will be safe."

"Her Royal Highness hesitates to command me, do you really think it wise for you to tell me what I 'should' or 'should not' do? Besides, I was clearly correct to believe you required an escort. Gather your materials, quickly now, do not leave anything behind. I need my hands free, so you will have to carry both baskets."

They were a block south of the seamstress' flat on the Gölsdorfgasse, when she realized that her escort was lagging behind. Quick glances confirmed that the designer had been injured though she could not tell exactly where or how badly.

Unlocking the main door, the seamstress waved the designer in before her. She locked the door behind them, then dropped a token into the coin box to light the gas lamps along the stairs.

"I'm on the top floor. Let me run the baskets up, and I'll come down again and help you up. Please, my lady, I have my own room, it's private, you can rest, or, if you can't stay long, I can at least bandage your injury, you can't… I mean you shou… I'm sorry. Please don't just go. I know you can do anything you want, but,"

"Shh, you're babbling, child. Anything I want? Well, right now, I want you to take those damn heavy baskets upstairs. Then you and I shall go up together. Bandages are insufficient. I have been impressed with your sewing, I will expect you to keep to that standard and do your job. That's all."


End file.
